


Words I Can't Forget

by feministfangirl



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, I'm warning you, M/M, implied emotional abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-13 14:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3384506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feministfangirl/pseuds/feministfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has ideas about what constitutes acceptable behaviour for an asset. Phil has ideas about what constitutes acceptable behaviour for a partner. Natasha does her best to intervene.</p><p>For a kink meme prompt:</p><p> </p><p>  <i>During an argument Phil calls Clint stupid. In the heat of the altercation he says/intimates it several times. Later there are general apologies and Clint forgives him but he still can't help but feel sucker-punched by it. This was a particular weak spot for him, one that his Dad, Barney, foster parents, the Swordsman loved to hit him in and now he's got Phil's voice in his head, every time he messes up, repeatedly calling him stupid. It doesn't matter what he's doing: a mission, paperwork, dinner, conversation - every time Clint makes a mistake it's all he can hear.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>Up to author how Clint reacts to this - does he dive into his work; go totally perfectionist; get reckless and have the Avengers start calling him stupid too because of his stunts; quit SHIELD altogether; get depressed; get angry; try to carry on as normal but slowly fall apart? So many possibilities.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Words I Can't Forget

**Author's Note:**

> So. Forewarning, this is the first fic I've written that has been seen by human eyes in about three years, save one trusted friend. I'm glad I finally managed to let go and finish something, since this has been in the works for two years already. This hasn't been beta'd. I was gonna wait but then I got impatient and here we are. Flaws and all.
> 
> Hope the prompter stumbles upon this at some point and is glad, but regardless. Come join my angsty party.

Clint knows his shoulder is dislocated, and that his face is sticky with blood from a head wound and that he’s at risk of concussion, he knows. But he’s not going to medical. It’s nothing he hasn’t lived through a hundred times, before and since SHIELD. He slips out of the Quinjet they’d caught back from the fight and loses the medical team sent after him in a matter of moments. He picks the lock to Phil’s office with the same hand that sports a broken finger and settles himself in a rigid chair to wait for him.

It’s nearly a half hour before Phil comes in with a harried look on his face, carrying a stack of paperwork thicker than a Dan Brown novel. Phil face looks almost surprised by Clint’s presence in a chair, his feet propped on the edge of the desk. Clint had spent much of his wait trying to decide if he should try to reduce his shoulder on his own or not. He knew that if he left it much longer it would actually require medical attention, but he’d much prefer to get non-medical help doing it. He glanced hopefully at Phil as he entered, but made no move otherwise.

“Really, Barton?” Phil sighs, and puts the pile neatly on the desk and flags it with a pink post it. Pink means to-do, Clint knows. This is different than the green – complete, or the orange – to be reviewed. Phil’s organizational systems are much more interesting than the throbbing in his arm or the stiffness growing in his knee. Luckily, Phil seems to feel merciful and doesn’t simply call medical to come get him. Instead, he leans on the edge of the desk nearest to Clint and uses his handkerchief to dab at the sticky place at Clint’s temple. “You should go to medical, Clint,” he says softly, frowning down at the other man.

“You know I’m not gonna be in medical if I’m still conscious,” he replies, leaning a little into the other man’s touch. Comfort from Phil is okay. Comfort from Phil isn’t clinical, isn’t painful. It’s gentle. It’s safe. But the look on Phil’s face is unimpressed.

“If you don’t smarten up,” he says slowly, “you will end up unconscious.” Phil presses the cloth to the wound and Clint wants to flinch and hiss and complain but he’s proving a point, and so he’s still and quiet. He feels like a child, being told again and again what to do because he’s not smart enough to remember. The comparison puts a sour taste in his mouth.

“I’ve survived much worse,” Clint says at last. “Reduce my shoulder, would you, dear?” Phil’s face goes tight with anger, recognizable to Clint by the locked jaw, the sharp eyes. There are no other tells, but Clint can tell this isn’t going to be an easy conversation. He’s tired and sore and just wants to curl up in bed but Phil isn’t going to let him off that easy. Phil pushes his feet off the desk, forcing Clint to sit up and adjust. The motion jostles his shoulder. He ignores the flare of pain. He’s making a point.

“I’m not reducing your shoulder,” Phil says calmly, though his voice is strained. “Medical professionals are paid to ensure that the priceless tool that is your body is mended correctly.” Clint rolls his eyes.

“Medical malpractice kills a hundred and ninety-five thousand people a year,” he scoffs in return. “My body. I decide what to do with it. Babe, let it go.” Phil narrows his eyes and Clint hates to see his serious Agent face but he meets his eyes defiantly. He can tell he’s about to get a lecture. The chances he’ll listen are low.

“Regulations state that any injury reported in a mission debrief, such as dislocating one’s shoulder while keeping a teammate from falling to their death, be treated by a SHIELD medical professional within six hours of return to base. A smart agent would be there as soon as his feet touched the deck.”

“Come on, Phil. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve followed that regulation. So let it go. Fix this and then come back to the tower and cuddle with me.” Clint knows Phil is a sucker for pleas of physical contact. He loves the domestic ease they settle into behind closed doors. But the other man doesn’t seem to be falling for it today. Phil looks back at Clint like he knows what he’s trying to do.

“Please,” he asks, his eyes trained on the shoulder that Clint is favouring. “You’re an asset. To SHIELD.” Clint grimaces. “To me.” Clint sighs.

“Your guilt trips aren’t gonna work. How many times are we gonna go through this? I’m not dying. So I’m not going to Medical.”

“For fuck’s sake!” There goes the trademark Coulson calm. It would be a win, for Clint, if the full force of him weren’t directed at him in anger. “You want me to call them in here, get them to haul you involuntarily down there?” Clint sets his jaw, tilting his chin in defiance.

“Fucking do it then. Take me against my will. Cause that’s the only way I’m going.” He can’t believe Phil is being such a hard ass about it. All he wants is to be in his own bed, touched only by the person he trusts, not a multitude of shady medical strangers. But Phil refuses to give in.

“Great. Keep acting like an idiot, then. Ruin your shoulders so you can’t shoot. You’re so stupid and stubborn that you’re going to let your fear of hospitals ruin your whole fucking life!” Phil’s face is red with anger; though his volume remains constant there is vehemence in those words. Each one is like a slap in the face, reminding him of one of his most obvious shortcomings, and Clint can’t handle that. Not from Phil.

“Yeah. I’ll keep my dumb ass to myself then.” He leaves, because he can’t face Phil’s face, angry like his father’s, telling him over and over, _You’re so stupid._ He returns to the computer-surveilled space of the tower, those words still ringing in his head. _You’re so stupid._ He pops his shoulder back into the joint on his own, sitting on the floor of his room and using his knees to stretch himself back into place. It hurts – he knows he should have done it much earlier but he’d been hiding the injury from the team. _You’re so stupid._ He drags himself to his bed and falls asleep, fully clothed.

Clint wakes because someone is touching him. He opens his eyes quickly and the light hurts, but he doesn’t feel like vomiting.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Of course it’s Phil.

“Three,” he says hoarsely. The sight of Phil isn’t the usual comfort, and it takes him a moment to figure out why.

“I’m sorry,” Phil blurts before Clint’s finished remembering the fight. “I shouldn’t have called you stupid.” He looks apologetic, his face betraying a level of emotion he rarely shows within spitting distance of headquarters.

“Don’t worry about it,” he mumbles. _You’re so stupid._ He shakes his head to release the memory, but it’s just pushed to the back of his mind. It doesn’t help that the shake makes him dizzy.

“No, I do worry about it,” Phil continues. “I don’t think you’re stupid, Clint. You’re a very smart, perceptive man who is sometimes stubborn to the point of self-destruction. I just want to make sure you’re okay.” He’s obviously beating himself up about it. Clint hates it when he does that, because the part of him that trusts Phil completely hates to see him anything less than self-assured. Clint smiles a little to soothe him and then Phil is kissing him, carefully, gently, avoiding putting pressure on him in any way. This thing between them is still young, still new, and Clint still thrills whenever Phil kisses him. It’s an effective way to make him forget the fight – but only for a moment.

“I’m okay,” Clint tells him once they’ve pulled apart. Phil is still close – they’re breathing the same air. “My shoulder’s back in place.” He flexes it. “Hurts, but not bad.” Of course, ‘not bad’ to Hawkeye is ‘sheer fucking agony’ to some, but he’s not compelled to elaborate, so he doesn’t.

“Glad to hear it. Brought you an icepack.” Phil pops it noisily and massages it until it’s cold in his hands, and then presses it to Clint’s shoulder through his long-sleeved shirt. “You hate medical. I get it. Will you at least let Banner take a look at it? I texted him, he’s awake.” Clint sighs, but he would still rather have a man who could become a giant raging monster at any time tending his wounds than anyone in medical who would be cataloguing and filing away this information to use against him later. He agrees, and Phil leads him out to meet up with the other Avenger. But despite the apologies, the assurances, and the kiss, Clint still has that phrase hidden in the back of his mind.

* * *

Late that night, Clint is struggling to finish his mission brief. Natasha finished hers that afternoon while some doctor sewed up her injured leg, and Steve had diligently done his after they had the standard post-mission communal meal. He reminded Clint of the kids in school who would go home on Friday night and do their homework right away. His brother would have called them brownnosers. Now at three in the morning, Clint can’t sleep and yet can’t seem to complete the simple document. _You’re so stupid_. Phil’s words cut through him like a knife. Swordsman had told him the same. It hurts more now than ever. He clenches his hands into fists so tight that he snaps the pen he was holding and gets ink all over his hands, paperwork, and desk. Cursing, he throws it all out and washes his hands. He returns to his desk and salvages what little of the previous brief he can, meticulously copying it and triple checking each line.

* * *

 

A few days after ‘ _the incident_ ’, as he calls it in his head, Clint is making dinner for a post-work date. Phil will be at the tower in an hour and is off duty for the next twenty-four hours, a rare luxury that even more rarely coincides with Clint’s downtime. Barring disaster, they’ll have a whole day to just be together. Clint is making spaghetti carbonara, because it looks delicious and he loves bacon. But halfway through slicing an entire clove of garlic, Clint wonders if Phil even likes garlic. And when had they last eaten spaghetti? He’s suddenly unsure of his choice. He imagines Phil’s disappointed face when he sees the meal, his resigned sigh as he sits down to eat, his expression of disgust as he says, _How much garlic did you use? God, you’re so stupid._ He cuts his finger. Swearing in frustration, he sticks the finger in his mouth and packs away all the ingredients. It’s only his value of food that keeps him from tossing the whole mess into the trash. He grills a couple of steaks instead. He makes a salad, meticulously dicing the vegetables he knows Phil likes, like cucumbers and tomatoes and peppers, and remembers to leave out the carrots.

* * *

 

Two weeks after ‘ _the incident’_ , Clint is on a standard recon mission in Montpellier that goes horribly wrong when he fails to notice that a well-trained assassin has replaced the target. Two days of observation and he hadn’t realized until he saw the gun pointed his way that this was not the target he was looking for. Now, running down eighteen flights of stairs in a populated office building, all he can do is think, _You’re so stupid_. There’s no avoiding the statement, and he’s not surprised to find it echoed in his debrief, and reflected in the eyes of his team. He knows full well that his eagle eyes should have caught the switch, that he shouldn’t have been off-comm, that he should have called for extraction immediately - but that doesn’t stop him from believing the words. _You’re so stupid_.

* * *

 

Three and a half weeks after ‘ _the incident’_ , he’s working out in the tower’s sprawling gym. Fifty pull-ups are part of his daily routine but it’s not enough to drive those sharp words from his mind. He’s well into the seventies when Natasha kicks him right in the gut. It catches him off guard, which only furthers her ire, and they wrestle until she’s holding him down with a knee to the throat, snarling, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“You’ll have to be specific, since the list is lengthy and we haven’t got all day,” he growls in reply. She doesn’t look impressed, but releases him and rolls casually to her feet, suddenly looking like she could model the loose workout clothes she’s wearing.

“I read your debrief for Montpellier,” she tells him, her voice neutral and yet just as angry as the snarl. He’s aware that he’s one of few people who can tell, but he can’t take pride in the fact the way he usually does.

“I already had my ass chewed out for that, now I have to take a beating too?” He doesn’t want to go over it again, doesn’t want to be reminded again that he’s –

“Why didn’t you call in your backup?” She asks, stretching like that was what she’d intended to come there to do. “Or keep your com on?”

“General foolishness,” he mutters in reply as he struggles to his feet. His stomach kind of hurts, and his voice is a little hoarse, but he’s otherwise unharmed. If she’d wanted to harm him, all she had to do was say the words that continued to bounce around in his head. “Drop it.”

“It was uncharacteristically risky to take out your tail on your own. Was there something else at play?” Her raised eyebrow is the largest sign of worry she betrays, but it makes him uncomfortable nonetheless. He can already hear her voice in his head, дурак, no longer the term of endearment he’d first heard it as, but a barbed weapon rained upon his already salted wounds.

He wants to continue his reps to wash out his brain, but suddenly the gym was the place where he got the third degree, where the words followed him through his physical exhaustion. He doesn’t say anything, just walks out. She could stop him, if she wanted to, but mercifully, she let him be.

* * *

 

“Barton.” Clint tenses only slightly before he realizes the voice is Hill, and not anyone he doesn’t want to talk to. He rises from his spot in briefing room 14C, one of the seldom-used glass-paneled rooms with a good view of the bustle of the lower levels of HQ. He’d been watching for patterns in the scurrying of the other agency members. Nothing had jumped out at him, other than the friendly handshake Strike team had started using, pulling one another close to thump each others’ back in frat-like brotherhood. It reminded him distinctly of his lack of college experience.

“Got a mission for me?” he asks without preamble. Hill is holding a file, but she doesn’t hold it out to him. She holds his gaze for a long moment; a hair longer than Clint is really comfortable with.

“You returned from one last night,” she says at last. Her expression is unreadable.

“Yeah. Got some rest, ready for another if you’ve got something.” She still makes no move to hand over the file, and that puts Clint in a foul mood. “I guess you don’t need me,” he says, after another long silence.

“How many missions have you been on in the past month?” she asks suddenly, before Clint can make any move to leave.

“Dunno,” Clint shrugs. “A bunch? Isn’t there a tech who can give you my stats?”

“I’m asking you. If you had to guess.” She tilts her head, just a fraction, but he can see that she won’t let him leave the room without a clear answer. He knows the answer. He just doesn’t want to give her one. Unfortunately, it seems he has no choice.

“Six.” A week long stint in Germany, three days in Laos, two days in California, three and a half days in Northern Canada, four days in Japan and one ill-advised trip to New Zealand. He didn’t elaborate out loud because he suspected she knew.

“According to your reports,” she says, confirming his suspicions, “You’ve had less than five days off in that time period. You know that regulations recommend two days between each solo OP, and more when it comes to any longer than three days.” Clint huffs out a laugh, because no one has ever mentioned that rule to him outside of the ream of paper he was forced to read upon joining up; he’s never been held to such a gentle standard.

“Yeah, and? If I’m not injured, I’m field ready.”

“Field ready means healthy, healed, and rested. You’re grounded. Unless Avengers business comes up – which I would be surprised to hear – you’re on rest until I say so.”

“Bullshit!” Clint can’t contain himself – he’s on his feet and standing eye to eye with Hill within a second. “You can’t afford to take me off the field.”

“You think so?” she replies, unfazed. “We’ve got specialists languishing in the wings, Barton. You can afford a little down time.” She takes this chance to turn back towards the door, leaving him in the middle of the room, trembling slightly with suppressed anger, his clenched fists making his fingers tingle.

“How long?” he manages to ask.

“Until we’re confident you’re not going to run yourself into the ground.” With that, Clint is left standing alone. All he can think is how _stupid_ he is for believing that he was indispensible.

* * *

 

Thankfully, one week into his SHIELD ‘vacation’ and four weeks after ‘ _the incident’_ , The Avengers are needed. Clint serves as eyes as he always does, but when he’s out of arrows and the genetically modified ex-con is escaping while the rest of the team is otherwise busy, he knows it’s up to him to follow. He chases the man down, though whatever serum he’s been pumped with has his muscles bulging bigger than Thor’s and his veins standing out thicker than Hulk’s, and Clint isn’t entirely sure what he’s going to do.

“Big bad’s on the move,” he pants as he releases his jump cable and pounds the pavement behind the man’s lurid shape.

“ _Keep eye_ s. _Be there in a jiff–”_ says Tony though the com, but Clint ignores it.

“ _Location, Hawkeye_?” Steve’s voice is rough, like he’s busy. He won’t make it in time, Clint knows, if the Captain is trying to intercede.

“Just south of First National. I’m on his tail.” He can hear the rest of the team in his ear, but he doesn’t listen to what generally amounts to _you big idiot_ because he knows that already. Coulson tells him every day, in the back of his head. So Clint keeps moving until he’s nearly caught up to the man and uses a vehicle to get a jump onto the guy’s neck.

The fight is fast – really fast, and Clint wins out of sheer luck. It turns out the drug has a short lifespan and while Clint was sure he was about to have his arm ripped clean off, the man began to look less purple in the face, then lost a measure of his inhuman strength. In the ensuing scramble to replenish his power, Clint smashes the bright purple stuff in the tank on the guy’s belt and grinds the delivery mechanism into dust. The guy falls to his knees in defeat as he rapidly becomes weaker and weaker, until Clint can tie him up with some handy rope. He sits on him, panting but trying not to show his fatigue, until Iron Man shows up.

“Are you out of your damn mind?” Tony says, his voice distorted by the armor. “What happened to ‘keep eyes’? We couldn’t find Bruce for ages!”

“But you found him,” Clint infers with a shrug. “Look, he was getting away. Sometimes, plans gotta change.” Noticing a movement in the distance, Clint realized Natasha was making her way over. “Besides, who died and made you leader? Let the Captain chew me out if he feels like it.” He’s tired, and he doesn’t want to wait around for Tony to start throwing insults. He solves the problem by taking out his comm. and his hearing aids, stowing the lot in a pocket and getting up. He stretches slightly before stalking off in the direction of the tower. Behind him, he knows Natasha must have reached Tony. It doesn’t matter. One of them might have called out to him, but he’s not in the mood for talk. He probably wouldn’t understand the conversation anyway.

* * *

 

Clint is wide-awake, late that night. He’s trying desperately not to think of the battle, to think of how close he’d come to getting badly injured, and to how little he cares about that fact. It’s not working very well. It doesn’t help that his shoulder doesn’t seem to be sitting right – he was pretty sure he’d reduced it properly this time but he hadn’t bothered to ice it, and he was beginning to regret the decision.

A slight sound made him sit upright in bed, and a heartbeat later he was crouched on the ground with a knife in hand, waiting in the shadows to see who came through the door. To his relief, it was Phil. Maybe he’d be able to convince Phil to soothe him to sleep without talking about the battle today at all. He dropped the knife on the bedside table with a clatter.

“A little paranoid tonight?” Phil asks, moving forward so he was directly in the pale moonbeam that streamed between the slightly ajar curtains that Clint had been too lazy to set right.

“Not much more than usual,” Clint mumbles. “You coming from work?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate. Clint figures Phil is trying to keep Clint from trying to get back in the field. Fat chance. Instead, Clint climbs back into bed, scooting to the far side and leaving room for Phil. But Phil doesn’t come to bed. He doesn’t even take off his jacket or loosen his tie, two of the first actions he usually makes upon entering Clint’s room. Clint watches him quietly for a moment, noticing that Phil’s shoulders are set high, like when he had to cancel on their weekend-out-of-town plans for an annoyingly bureaucratic SHIELD mission. After a little while, Phil clears his throat.

“Long time no see,” he says, though it’s clear from his face that it’s not what he meant to say.

“Missions,” Clint replies automatically. “Mine, then yours. Nothing out of the ordinary.” He says that last part maybe a little too quickly, because Phil’s mouth twists. Clint knows something bad is about to happen. He gives the other man ten agonizing seconds longer to start a conversation, but Phil says nothing, simply shifts imperceptibly, as if preparing himself.

“Are you here to break up with me?” he asks, his voice much quieter than he meant it to be.

“What? I – No, Clint. I… Natasha talked to me. You’ve been acting strange for weeks now.” Clint frowned. Natasha got involved – that wasn’t a good sign. As a rule, the two of them left interventions in self-destructive behaviour to those more equipped to recognize it. Phil continues, “I know I haven’t been around much lately, and I wonder if… I wonder why…” Phil seemed to be having trouble formulating his thoughts, but he doesn’t give Clint an opportunity to intervene. “Your behaviour has been increasingly risky for the past month. You took far more missions than you have since the Avengers, and the rest of the team reports that you barely follow orders, keep getting into dangerous situations –”

“Thanks for the lecture,” Clint ground out through clenched teeth, sitting up in bed. He stared at the crumpled sheets instead of Phil. “Since I’m not at HQ right now, I don’t appreciate being reprimanded like a baby Agent. Especially not in my bedroom.”

“Then try not to act like one!” Clint looks up to see Phil’s face, equal parts anger and confusion. The outburst and the expression reminded him so much of every one who had ever yelled at him before that he couldn’t play it off, couldn’t stay calm. He reacted.

“I can’t help being stupid!” He’d meant it to sound angry and sarcastic; it came out petulant and wounded. His hands are shaking with frustration, now, clutching the sheet to keep the sight from Phil. He’s not sure it works. “I can’t help being an idiot, and if you’re going to keep punishing me for it, then maybe – “ Phil cuts him off quickly.

“I-I didn’t say that.” His voice is softer but his expression remains.

“Not today,” Clint growls, but realizes that he’s blown his cover, now. Because Phil looks at him and he can tell he realizes he’s remembering _the incident_. “You don’t have to say it,” he adds, because the jig is up anyway and it hurts, all the time.

“I apologized for that,” Phil replies hastily. “I – thought you understood.”

“You didn’t mean to say it out loud,” Clint mumbles back, finally giving in to his impulse to curl up, his arms holding his knees near his chest despite the discomfort of the position. He feels small under the weight of Phil’s gaze.

“Clint, I don’t-“ Phil looks like Barney did, ready to apologize and move on. Like the rest, Phil has the ability to leave the words behind. But Clint can’t.

“If you didn’t believe it, you wouldn’t have said it,” he tells his knees, because he can’t face Phil with that _uncomprehending_ expression on his face. “You wouldn’t have thought it if you didn’t. You know me, Phil. Better than most. Better than anyone.”

“That’s how I know I was wrong.” But he doesn’t sound convinced. Clint can feel it coming, the realization of Clint’s deepest flaws. He blurts out the rest so Phil doesn’t have to.

“My father wasn’t wrong. Swordsman, Barney, Natasha – they weren’t wrong! And neither were you. I’m…” _Worthless. A fool. Useless. Reckless_. _Unfit to be with a man as smart and talented as Phil._

“Clint, please…”

“They all said it. And so did you.” Phil doesn’t have a comeback for that. Clint keeps his eyes down. “You’re all right. I am stupid. Too stupid to be with someone like you.” Phil is silent for an endless moment, and Clint counts the scars on his left hand to keep himself from buckling under the strain of Phil’s potential words. But Phil doesn’t say anything in his defense, or anything to tell Clint he’s wrong.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks. _No_ , Clint thinks. _But you should. Or I should. Or both._

“Yes,” he says aloud. He doesn’t look at Phil so he doesn’t have to see him leave. It’s better that way.

* * *

 

Natasha finds him there in the early hours of the morning. Earlier, JARVIS notified him that she was waiting for him in the gym, but he hadn’t moved from his spot, nor had he indicated that she shouldn’t wait. A less than an hour later, her entrance is near silent, but it’s shellshock more than anything that keeps him still, staring blankly at the wall across from his bed.

“Clint?” her voice is surprisingly gentle. It’s this that rouses his attention.

“Nat…?” He feels dazed, and he looks up at her with eyes over-glassy with suppressed emotion. Her expression is a little guilty as she crosses the room to sit beside him.

“Phil came by.” It’s not a question. He nods his response.

“Are you alright?” she asks, knowing the answer already. He shakes his head, his gaze drifting back to the blank wall. They’ve been through a lot together. Natasha has seen Clint naked, broken, bloody, dirt poor, angry, in love, happy, depressed… And in turn he’s seen her the same; he’s almost the only person who has. She shares little of herself with others, but he’s seen all of her. They’re as close as siblings, each agent one side of a deadly, damaged coin. This fight with Phil, and its’ deep roots in his personal history is one of the last few things that lingers unsaid between the archer and the assassin. Not on purpose; simply because Clint hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t acknowledged it in <i> _years_ </i>. But now it’s back, and worse than ever, nipping at his heels like a hound. And Phil holds the leash.

“We broke up,” he manages to say, but the rest of what he wants to tell her gets stuck in his throat.

“ _What_?” says, her voice accusatory in his ears. But rather than turning her blame on him, she goes first for Phil. “That сволочь,” she hisses, “I told him you needed to talk, not –” Clint shakes his head.

“He tried,” he croaks. “But it doesn’t matter. It’s better this way.” She regards him for a long, quiet moment. He looks back at her, but she’s always had the ability to feel like she’s looking directly into his mind; he cracks and looks away.

“So you broke up with him,” she says. It makes the whole thing sound like his fault. He kind of agrees with her. He had to cut loose. It would only be worse if he tried to hold on, now that he knows what Phil thinks. What they all think.

“It’s my fault anyway. I’m the one who… has a problem.” He doesn’t want to get into the specifics. He’s not sure he can tell her without breaking down. Even trying to articulate his thoughts sends hot waves of shame and sadness rolling over him, causing him to struggle under the weight of emotions he’s left unchecked for a long, long time. He tries to force himself to go blank again, to push any real thoughts down into the vault, and might have succeeded if not for Natasha.

“What problem is that?” His eyes flick up to meet hers and he’s surprised to find she’s not angry, or confused, or upset – just concerned. Her expression is soft, and he remembers that he trusts her completely. He has to explain. Even if she agrees, he knows she won’t think less of him, stupid or not. It’s a small measure of comfort that in a world against him, Natasha has his back.

“I can’t get past the words,” he blurts out, holding her gaze for as long as he can before he has to look away, her open support reminding him of the support of another, who he’s just lost. “We fought, he apologized. It should have been nothing. It was nothing for him.”

“But it’s not nothing.” There’s no preamble before she asks. “What did he say to you?” Clint breathes hard, trying not to let his voice waver.

“He called me stupid.” Natasha is silent, so he continues, “I mean he’s not wrong but I can’t… I thought he…” His voice cracks. He clears his throat and says instead, “An idiot like me doesn’t deserve him.” And that’s it, that’s the point. He’s not good enough for Phil. It is better to break it off now instead of letting it get worse. He’s already had a full month of stewing, and it’s made him ineffective in so many ways.

“He had no right to say that to you,” Natasha says at last. “You’re not stupid, Clint. You’re the best specialist in your field. You’re a member of the Avengers. You’re the only person I trust. You’re more intelligent than they give you credit for.” Her words, carefully chosen, work to overwrite the words of others. She’s rebuilding him, as he once did for her after years of sinister conditioning. He doesn’t agree with what she’s said, not by half, but he’ll listen to her. Natasha knows best. She’s close enough for him to reach out to her. And he does.

“They end up tangled together in the bed, his head in her lap and his arms around her waist, clinging to her solid presence as her hand settles in his hair, stroking gently. It reminds him distantly of being a child. He knows she hates so much frivolous contact; she thinks cuddling is for keeping warm, not to express simple affection. But he needs this.

“How am I supposed to forgive him, Nat?” He asks her. “How can I forget that he… like everyone else… thinks I’m stupid?” He feels her hand still in his hair as she considers her response.

“I don’t know, Clint. I don’t know.”

**Author's Note:**

> uh also if you like fandom and tumblr you should follow me there http://feministfangirl.tumblr.com


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